


smoke on the horizon

by belovedmuerto



Series: An Experiment in Empathy [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, Greg Lestrade is not as dumb as Sherlock thinks he is, Mischief Managed, Psychic Bond, different POV!, empath!John, experiment in empathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade is not, in actual fact, a moron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	smoke on the horizon

**Author's Note:**

> This is another story that has been written and waiting for a while. It's a wee bit different than the others have been, I hope you enjoy it.

Greg Lestrade is not, in actual fact, a moron. He's not even unobservant, except in comparison with Sherlock Holmes. Which really, isn't saying a whole lot, as Sherlock does as much as he can to throw off statistical analysis in most areas (with gleeful abandon as well, if Greg can say— which he does. Often). Greg wouldn't have made DI if he weren't capable of solving a case on his own.

He does, however, solve a lot more of them, and much faster, with the consulting detective around. And he has the courage of his convictions that Sherlock Holmes is a great man, which helps him put up with the insufferable prat. Sometimes it even helps.

Now that John Watson is around as well, it seems like Greg is even right when he insists that Sherlock will manage to become a good man, one day. Sooner rather than later, if John has any say in the matter.

Which, shocking enough, he seems to have. Sherlock _listens_ to him. He's even, and Greg never though he would see the day, considerate of John. They're attached at the hip, and Sherlock cares about the man; it's rather heartwarming to see, even if Greg does attempt to keep that knowledge to himself. The rest of his team doesn't have the honed sense of observation he does, and though they notice the closeness, they seem to draw all the wrong conclusions from the data. No wonder Sherlock despairs of the lot of them. They also haven't known Sherlock as long as he has, and most of them have written him off as a sociopath, which he really isn't. Greg's got no idea how John managed it, but he’s clearly quite important to his flatmate/friend.

Greg had been relieved when they'd resurfaced after that thing with the pool and the madman and the bomb. ( _Two months! Where the hell were they for two months?_ He's not been able to get a straight answer out of John, and all Sherlock will say on the matter is “Bloody Mycroft.” _Which, considering Mycroft is a Holmes as well, actually answers a lot, even if it isn't specific_. Greg has only met the man once or twice, and he's never been able to decide if Mycroft Holmes is unbearably gorgeous or unbearably scary.) After the relief had come the worry: John had finally started acting like a man with PTSD, twitchy and skittish. Then he'd passed out that first time Sherlock had dragged him to a crime scene after their reappearance, and Lestrade had begun to wonder if there wasn't more there than at first is apparent.

So Sherlock took his friend and flounced off to Sussex for weeks, and Greg had used the time and the thankful lull in work to mentally go over every encounter he'd ever had with John Watson, every beer they'd shared, John's off-the-cuff remarks about people and crime scenes and the crimes themselves and about Sherlock especially. He noticed that though friendly and open, John rarely ever initiated touch with another person before the pool, and after only does so with Sherlock. He doesn't obviously avoid contact, he just keeps to himself and doesn't go looking for it. Which really isn't all that odd at all, but when added to the sum of his knowledge, Greg Lestrade had begun to consider the total.

Now, Greg is a smart guy, and a police officer. He's prone to scepticism, but not as prone as you might think. He's seen some weird shit in his day. It tends to happen when one's been a detective for most of their adult life. So if you think he doesn't eventually come around to wondering if perhaps John Watson is psychic, you'd be wrong.

For a long time, he resists the notion. He's not one of those frou frou New Age nutjobs who talks about vibes and crystals and thinks everyone is psychic on some level and shit like that. He's a practical man. He knows it's possible, he's had enough weird things happen to and around him, he's heard enough stories, he's seen enough (and then there's his grand-dad, his mum, and his brother). But that doesn't mean it's entirely likely. Or even remotely likely; it's a rare enough thing to come across an actual psychic (who isn't from a long line of them, anyway) that the odds are against it being true.

And why doesn't he consider Sherlock being the psychic in that pair?

You've never met Sherlock, have you? Eccentric genius, yes. Abilities that seem far beyond the ken of normal folk, of course. Psychic? Try suggesting that to him, see what he does.

Anyway, chances are, John Watson just happens to be phenomenally good in bed and has used Sherlock's libido to temper him into something slightly softer than very sharp steel. It's possible, right?

Except John and Sherlock aren't sleeping together. Greg knows this. John's a good guy, and Greg considers him a friend, and he believes John when he says they're just mates. Even though they've started acting like there's something else, something more there.

Which brings Greg back around to 'psychic.'

He feels silly even considering it. He's not sure why, really. He should be more open to the idea, considering his family history.

So he decides it's time for a bit of a talk with John Watson. Just a friendly chat, between mates, over pints, down at a pub where the food is decent and not a) non-existent like in his flat right now (he really needs to go to the shops) or b) probably contaminated by whatever nastiness Sherlock's been indulging in lately in the kitchen in their flat.

John's been a different man since he and Sherlock returned from Sussex. He'd been poorly their first few days back, had missed the case that Lestrade had lured them back with (honestly, he'd really needed Sherlock's eye on that one. He'd missed the comrade-like presence and commiseration of John as well). Since then, however, John's been back to what Greg had come to expect of him; generally calm and sort of morbidly cheerful and pleasant. Really, he could probably give creep-show Sherlock a run for his money in the morbid sensibilities department and Greg wonders why no one else seems to notice this.

John Watson is nearly always a pleasant person. He brings coffee from down the street for Greg and his team and he knows how everyone takes it, he translates from Sherlock to English and back again, he gives his medical opinion with the confidence of someone who really knows his stuff.

Greg's glad to see it. He's a bit surprised, however, by the subtle changes in Sherlock. When they arrive on-scene, Sherlock ceases his confident, single-minded stride towards the puzzle just inside the caution tape. He turns and looks at John, who hesitates for only the barest instant before ducking under and stopping next to his flatmate. They are well within each other's personal space and looking for all the world like it's perfectly normal and comfortable.

They share a look fraught with some meaning that Greg can't decipher. Sally and Anderson snicker, and Greg spares them a glare. Those two really need a new hobby.

Greg watches as John takes a deep breath and sighs in apparent relief, then nods. Sherlock returns the nod, and Greg sees one long bony hand alight on the doctor's shoulder for an instant before he's off at breakneck speed, into his own world again, concentration wholly on the corpse still on the ground.

John cracks his neck and takes another deep breath, plasters a smile that doesn't look entirely comfortable to Greg on his face, and crosses the scene to stand next to the Detective Inspector.

“All right?” Greg asks, wondering if he'll get a straight answer.

Surprisingly, he's pretty sure he does. John doesn't answer for a moment, but he says, “Yeah, I think I am. You?” after a moment.

Greg shrugs. “You know.”

John smiles, and it's an easier smile, closer to what Greg has grown used to seeing. “Yeah, I do.”

The rest of Sherlock's performance over the dead woman had passed mostly without incident. Well, entirely without incident outside his normal vitriol aimed mostly at Anderson. Entirely without incident, that is, to everyone except Greg. But Greg was watching them much more closely than normal, and he noticed that when John went to crouch next to Sherlock, he laid the backs of his fingers against Sherlock's neck, tucking under his collar, briefly. So briefly that Greg's pretty sure no one else noticed. No one else noticed that the gesture seemed to mean something, contain something, because Sherlock nodded and stood, moving slightly aside so John could get a better look before offering his medical opinion on what had happened to the poor woman.

(Pretty obvious, actually: even Greg is pretty sure that cause of death is “being stabbed repeatedly in the chest with the very sharp bit of glass that happens to be currently embedded therein.” But, best leave that to the experts, that's why he called them in after all.)

Greg files this away with the rest of his observations about Sherlock and John.

Is that creepy? That Greg's got a file of “things about John and Sherlock that have left me pretty sure that John's psychic”?

He's not sure, himself. But he's curious, and this is when he really decides that he's going to do something about it.

The way Sherlock's hand lifts to rest against the back of John's neck when they're leaving the scene, heads bent together and completely oblivious of everyone around them, gets filed away as well. It seems to be an unconscious gesture on Sherlock's part, a comfortable one, an intimate one. John visibly relaxes under it.

Everyone sees that, and the two men are completely oblivious of that as well. They continue off the scene while Sally stares blatantly after them, speculation written all over her face, and Anderson just grimaces like he's tasted something truly disgusting.

**

Greg invites John out for a pint a few days later, and John is quick to accept. He makes a comment about Sherlock being wrapped up in experiments for the current case and spending more time at Barts than in the flat, and suggests a pub situated nicely between New Scotland Yard and Baker Street.

(What Greg doesn’t know, and won’t until later when John actually tells him, is that the reason John suggested that particular pub, besides that it has good food and a great beer selection, is not because it’s situated between Scotland Yard and Baker Street, but between Barts and Baker Street. Their range has improved with the ‘experiments’ the two of them have conducted for that purpose, but it’s not great just yet, so John prefers to keep close to wherever Sherlock happens to be as much as possible. Not that this is hard; Greg does already know, after all, that they’re attached at the hip. Greg’s glad to have been able to get John on his own, because he doesn’t have any idea how this conversation will go if Sherlock is there too.)

He waits until they’ve finished eating and have settled into a mostly comfortable silence, watching the match on the telly in the corner and nursing a second beer for each of them.

Greg’s not sure how to broach the subject, so he decides to go for blunt honesty coupled with curiosity. John lives with Sherlock, after all, he should be able to appreciate honesty, right?

“So, you’re psychic then,” he states.

John aspirates the mouthful of his beer that he’d just taken.

Unheard by both of them as Greg pounds on John’s back and John tries to relearn how to draw a proper breath around the alcohol now in his lungs, John’s phone beeps to signal an incoming text.

“What’re you on about?” John finally manages to rasp, as if Greg hasn’t already drawn the conclusion that he’s one hundred percent right in his assertion from John’s reaction.

Greg resumes his seat now that John isn’t in imminent danger of drowning himself with his beer, and waits ‘til John has swallowed his next gulp before speaking again. “Well, it’s either that or you two are shagging now, and you’ve told me you aren’t.”

John blushes and stares into his beer. His phone beeps again.

“Wait, are you--?”

“No, Greg, we aren’t shagging. Jesus.”

“But you are psychic.” Greg can’t quite suppress the triumphant grin, and for a bare moment John looks like he wants to pour his beer over Greg’s head, or possibly hit him, Greg can’t tell which. This only widens the grin, to be honest.

“What gives you that idea?” John refuses to meet Greg’s eye now.

“Lots of things, really. The fact that you won’t even look me in the eye right now, for one.”

“That has to be one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard, Greg. I’d not have expected you, of all people, to believe in that sort of nonsense.” John braces himself visibly and looks up.

John’s phone beeps a third time, and Greg gives it a look, a new conclusion starting to form in his head. See? Greg Lestrade is a smart guy, and here he is, proving it.

“Bollocks,” Greg replies, pleasantly. John glares at him.

“You’re having a laugh then, is that it?”

“John, I’m not an idiot, despite the constant assurances by Sherlock that I am. I have eyes, I do see.”

“Sherlock doesn’t think you’re an idiot, Greg,” John assures him.

“And how do you know that?” Greg cajoles.

“Because I know him. I’m his friend.” John’s hackles rise, but he doesn’t take the bait.

John’s phone rings. Startled, John looks down at the caller id and then sighs, a long-suffering sigh that Greg has heard untold times from both his own mum, and his brother when dealing with his two children.

“Yes, Sherlock?” John says after hitting the answer button. He immediately pulls the phone away from his ear as Sherlock shouts something down the line.

“Sorry, been a bit distracted.”

John sighs again as Sherlock continues what Greg imagines is going to be a fairly epic rant.

“No, we’re at the pub.”

“No, Sherlock. Don’t. Seriously.”

“I mean it, Sherlock.”

“Fine.” John jabs the button to end the call a bit more forcefully that he needs to and looks up at Greg. There’s nothing but resignation in his eyes.

“I don’t want to have this conversation here, Greg. Care to come back to the flat for a cuppa?”

“How about another beer? My treat.”

The ghost of a smile crosses John’s expressive face. “Sounds great.”

They stop for beer on the way back to Baker Street, and they don’t talk much. Greg lets John gather his thoughts or communicate telepathically with Sherlock or whatever it is he’s doing, and he watches as surreptitiously as he can. John seems to come to some conclusion or other as they’re entering the flat. He takes the beer from Greg and puts it in the fridge, skirting around the debris of Sherlock’s current experiment with ease and muttering something about science being on the same shelf as the milk again before grabbing two of the beers and opening them. He hands one to Greg and they go into the lounge to sit.

“I’m not going to tell anyone, John,” Greg says quietly. He feels the need to reassure John. Really, they are friends after all. He wouldn’t betray a friend.

John looks up at him and smiles a little. “I know, Greg. I’m not used to... talking about it. I still have a hard time talking to Sherlock about it.”

“Is it easy to talk to him about anything?”

“Most things, actually.” And that’s the difference between John Watson and Greg Lestrade: the ease with which one can converse with Sherlock Holmes.

Greg’s not sure now’s the time, but he wants to confirm his new suspicion as well. “You’ve bonded with him, haven’t you?”

John nearly drops his beer. It is not his night for graceful reactions. Greg decides he should really try not to startle John in the future. It might not end well for anyone involved.

“How?” John croaks. He seems to remember his beer then, because he gulps desperately at it.

Greg shrugs. “Just the way you two interact. And the fact that he started texting you at the pub right after I brought it up, and then he actually rang you. Sherlock Holmes does not phone anyone.”

“Shit,” John murmurs. He gets up and starts pacing the lounge. “Jesus, Greg. Are _you_ psychic or something?”

“No,” he admits. “But my grand-dad was the seventh son of a seventh son.”

“Oh. Well, then.” John momentarily stops his pacing to stare.

“My mum and my brother both have a touch of the sight,” Greg adds.

“But not you?”

“No. But I’m familiar enough to be able to see the way you two act around each other for what it really is. Do you know how rare a bonded pair is, John?”

“I suppose; never heard of it happening before.” John shrugs.

“My grandfather used to tell us stories,” Greg says. “He said it was only, uh, soulmates who bond, generally.”

John gives Greg a long look, assessing him, and Greg struggled not to break the gaze. It was difficult, he could almost feel John weighing him.

But John eventually shrugs. “I didn’t have much choice in the matter, honestly. He would’ve... well. No. Not much choice at all.”

“Are you in love with him?” Greg asks, even more quietly.

Before John can answer, however, there’s a slam from downstairs and a shouted “JOHN!” as Sherlock comes hurtling upstairs.

John moves to the doorway to block his forward momentum, keep him from charging straight across the room at Greg. Sherlock stops short and settles for a glare while John stands resolutely in his personal space. Sherlock’s breathing is heavy, and his glare should possibly stop Greg’s heart. But Greg’s been glared at by Sherlock Holmes before, and if this particular glare feels a bit heavier than usual, that’s still not enough to smother him.

Greg sits back and spreads his arms across the back of the sofa, makes himself comfortable. He momentarily wishes he had his team with him to bolster his confidence; it doesn’t look quite the same if he isn’t in the middle of a drugs bust.

John shifts and looks at Greg over his shoulder and gives a tiny shrug before he lifts his left hand to rest it against Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock almost immediately subsides. Again, Greg watches as something passes between the two men, some communication, something flowing from John to Sherlock along their psychic bond.

It’s fascinating. It’s uncomfortably intimate, and he feels like he’s intruding.

He watches as Sherlock’s gaze softens, somewhat. The consulting detective heaves a great, put-upon sigh and drops his gaze. He puts his own hand over John’s, and then nods, breaks the contact to go into the kitchen.

John turns to look at Greg and speaks. “No. Well, not in the traditional sense, anyway.” He shrugs and follows Sherlock into the kitchen. “Another beer?” he calls back over his shoulder.

Dumbstruck, it takes Greg a moment to find his voice and reply, “Yeah, great.”


End file.
